Page 95 - Corporal in Charge of Taking Care of Captain O'Malley

Show Me the Money! 83

history.” I laugh at my puritanical head, but take very seriously
my hardening dick that has no conscience. He takes a swig of
beer and peers hard at me. Inexplicably, I blurt out: “I want to
exploit you.”
“Cool,” he says.
Nervous as a virgin-bidder at a white-slave auction, I say: “Ya
wanna mess around for fifty bucks?”
Fifty? Why did I say fifty? My subconscious is worried
whether or not he’ll like me. I forget rough trade doesn’t give a
fuck about me.
His blue eyes pierce into my face. “You ain’t a cop, are you?”
Flattered —god, I’m such a kveen!—I say, “No.”
His face lights up. He actually says, “Show me the money.”
Hustlers are able to work out deals with a john in a heartbeat.
“Let’s go,” he says, and we stroll out together, with the bar full of
johns and hustlers watching our cool-as-shit exit.
Before all, for a hustler, $ = sex.
After all, for a john, sex = $.
That night, Blue-Eyes-with-Buzz-Cut was what he has long
been: a terrific piece of ass. That night, I became, at least for once,
what I had long had an attitude about: a john. Mmm, I mean, a
patron of the arts.
It was more than okay. It was hot! It was a perfect relation-
ship. Pleasurable. Easy cum. Easy go. No hassles. No personal
baggage about his old lady pregnant in some Motel 86 on Sunset
Boulevard. No listening to some gay guy dysfunctioning about
his 12-step program. Hey! That night of my initiation into LA
hustler bars proved, I guess, there’s no business like show business.
Plus if you ain’t getting what you want, go rent!

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